Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(8)

She smirked, reached into her beach bag, drew out an eight-by-ten blowup, which she placed before him. “You never should have accepted Karpov’s invitation to his wedding. There you are, for all the world’s clandestine organizations to see, with the general’s arm slung across your shoulders. Bosom buddies, that’s the phrase, isn’t it?” She laughed. “The Japanese would say ‘huckleberry friends.’ But they get all these odd translations from American pop songs.” She meant, in this case, “Moon River.”

“Jason, in all seriousness, this photo has caused a hornet’s nest of angst within your own secret services. And as for the FSB, now that the general is gone, now that Timur Savasin discovered you made off with Ivan Volkin’s ill-gotten gains, the first minister is also out for your blood.”

“Someone’s always out for my blood.”

“And what about your Israeli inamorata?”

Bourne briefly thought about not answering her, but then realized that might be just what she wanted. “She met Boris, several times.”

“Enemies…or friends?”

“Boris Illyich was not like that. If you knew him—”

“Little late for that, isn’t it?”

He was about to go when she put her hand over his. “Sorry.” She looked him straight in the eye. “Really.” Still he remained half-risen. She lowered her voice: “You know every wound, every scar…you know how hideous my body is.”

Bourne sat back down. “Which is what makes me sad.”

“You see,” she flared. “I knew it!”

“Mala, you misunderstand me. What Keyre did to you, the rituals he performed on you. You became his. But that doesn’t have to be. You’re stronger than that.”

“But, as you see, I’m here with you. Now. Jealous of your Israeli who, I am certain, possesses a flawless body.”

Bourne was determined to say nothing more on this subject.

She sighed. “I suppose I feel possessive of you. Our history. And then there’s what you’ve done for Liis.”

“Then the two of you have spoken at least.”

Mala shook her head. “I tried, but Liis won’t speak to me.”

“What happened? She was hoping you’d make one of her performances.”

“I did. I was in New York in the winter, when she performed at Lincoln Center.”

“And you didn’t come backstage to see her?”

“We’re not cut from the same cloth. I’m death to her. I won’t come near her.”

Then he understood: that was when she had seen him with Sara. He frowned. “How long have you been surveilling me?”

She pursed her lips. “I strive to know as much about you as you know about me.”

“But you never can.”

“It doesn’t stop me from trying.” Then she tossed her head again. “Oh, come on, I have no evil designs on your Israeli.”

Sara. Her name is Sara, Bourne thought. He had met the Mossad agent five years ago, had saved her life in Mexico City, had worked with her on and off since then. Last year, she had been falsely accused of murdering Boris. The idea of speaking her name in Mala’s presence, of hearing her say it, seemed intolerable. These were two separate areas of his life. Instinct told him that bringing them together in any form was a recipe for disaster.

“Who do you have evil designs on?” he said, wanting to steer the conversation in another direction.

“The people who are now out to terminate you with extreme prejudice. And I do mean extreme.”

“It’s been tried before.”

“I know, but this is different.”

“How?”

“The Americans and the Russians are coming after you simultaneously. If you’re not careful, they’ll have you in a pincer movement, west and east converging on one target.”

He considered this for a moment. “So you brought me here to warn me?”

She nodded. “Partly. And partly to—”

At that instant, the Nym was consumed by a series of oily fireballs. The rolling thunder of the detonations reached them seconds after the boat was engulfed.

And then its fractured components spewed high in the air, an infernal fountain.





3



Have they found anything?”

“Nothing, sir.”

First Minister Timur Savasin, second only to the Sovereign himself, stood on the grounds of Boris Illyich Karpov’s dacha, in the dense woods north of Moscow, hands on hips, sucking on a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. In front of him a squad of men were digging, burrowing, banging on walls and floorboards, checking for false backs in cupboards, secret niches under the stairs, in other words tearing the interior apart. Off to his left, a bulldozer sat idling, while its operator smoked a cigarette. Behind that was the huge flatbed that had transported the machine out here from Moscow.

“No money, no log books, no lists? Not a fucking thing?” he asked in a voice made brittle by frustration.

“No, sir.”

He was answered by Igor Malachev, a Kremlin silovik who was his second-in-command. Karpov had muscled his way to become the head of both the FSB, the successor to the Soviet KGB, and FSB-2, the anti-narcotics organization. Never again would one man wield such power; the Sovereign had purged all of Karpov’s people from the nine FSB directorates. He had named Konstantin Ludmirovich to head the FSB. As for FSB-2, that posting was still vacant. The appointment had come as a shock to Savasin. He had not spoken to Konstantin in five years. Perhaps this was the Sovereign’s attempt at a path to a rapprochement. On the other hand, it was just as likely the Sovereign’s way of pointing out to both men who really pulled the strings in the Russian Federation. General Karpov had gotten far too powerful right under the Sovereign’s nose; clever Karpov had found a way to game the system. That kind of clandestine disobedience would never happen again, the Sovereign’s action had made that perfectly clear. Either way, having to deal with Konstantin on an almost daily basis returned to Savasin the old, ugly, and humiliating nightmares. However, with the Sovereign’s blessing, Savasin had elevated Colonel Alecks Volodarsky to head of spetsnaz, the FSB’s Special Forces.